The Clothes Make the Man
by Aelia Douglass
Summary: The Lone Wanderer discovers it's safer to travel as a man. So she does. Oneshot.


She had never been particularly feminine.

Growing up in the vault, she'd exclusively worn the 101 jumpsuits. They were comfortable and efficient. They hadn't required thought or effort; all she had to do was put on the vault-suit and she was ready to go. In her teens, she'd been teased for being so flat. "Flat as a boy" someone had said. At the time it had devastated her. Now she realized that it worked to her advantage.

Out in the wastes, being a female made you a target.

Slavers wanted you. Pimps wanted you. Raiders assumed you were weak. She'd learned the hard way that being a woman was dangerous and difficult, and she'd had enough.

Her hair had been her favorite feature, and her only vanity. It was auburn red, and it fell in luxurious waves nearly to her waist. She'd almost always worn it loose in the vault. When she'd left, she'd learned to braid it. The pain was tangible when she'd cut it off. She'd wept as she'd taken a straight razor to her head and shaved the last of it.

She had not thought anything of binding her meager breasts. Minimal compression had been needed, and then she was flat. When her breasts had grown in her late teens, she'd been so excited. Suddenly she'd had appeal, and had felt ipretty/i. Now she was just glad they hadn't grown more. It made it easier to pass.

She examined her face in the mirror. She was just on the masculine side of androgynous, but that was all she needed. Most people wouldn't bother to look twice. And if they did, she'd have the extra moment that second-look would require to prepare herself.

It wasn't until someone asked her name that she realized that she hadn't thought her entire plan through. She'd blanked and nearly blurted out "Kate" but stopped herself just in time and had said "Grayson."

Within a few short weeks, but "Grayson" was more comfortable in the wastes than "Kate" ever could have been. She learned quickly to adapt her mannerisms, and adjusted her behavior to what was expected from men. The only thing she had trouble with was treating women like pieces of meat—that it was the norm here disgusted her—and it was a relief when she figured out that she could sidestep that by alluding to her attraction to men.

Once or twice, that got her beaten, but mostly guys just sighed and stopped talking to her about other women. The worst was when she met a man who found her as attractive as she found him, and she'd nearly forgotten that he was interested in Grayson, not Kate. She felt terrible using him like she did. She'd gotten him so drunk he wouldn't remember a damn thing, brought him back to his room, and dumped him naked into his bed. By morning she was long gone and steered clear of that town for a while.

After that, she'd been more wary of good men. She couldn't bear to hurt another.

Kate/Grayson found her way into Underworld nearly six months after her departure from the vault. She was more world-worn and tired of everything. There had been so many atrocities. So many close calls. She was tired of getting so close to death. It was getting old fast.

So when she found out that she could simultaneously get a bodyguard and save the surly ghoul from the sleazy Ahzrukhal, she jumped at the opportunity. A thousand caps later, Charon—as she learned his name was—had a "conversation" with his previous owner. She tried not to wince as she heard the sound of gunshots.

"Let's go." Was all he said to her as he strode past.

She had followed.

It had never occurred to her to mention to Charon that his employer was actually a woman. She was too comfortable as Grayson, and in a lot of ways, Kate had faded from her mind. Except for once a month, she was Grayson through-and-through. She walked like a man, talked like a man, sometimes she even thought like a man. A man who liked other men, but still a man.

But without fail, her monthly cycle hit her like a freight train and she spent a week in the fetal position in her house in Megaton. It was awful, but there was no way around it; she was so sick she could barely function. Food made her queasy, not eating made her just as sick in different ways.

For that week of misery, there was no Grayson.

The first time it happened, Charon had been oblivious, had commented that Grayson should be more careful of what he ate. The second, Charon had suggested that maybe she should be more careful about using "a rubber" with her hookers. She had laughed and said she'd take it into consideration.

Surprisingly, that wasn't what ultimately gave her away.

No, what gave her away was the whiskey. Too damn much of it. She'd had to take a piss, and she'd squatted down behind some rocks. Because for all that her behavior had become male, she still wasn't physically equipped to do certain things.

He'd thought he heard something, and fallen back to her position, where he'd found something unexpected. He'd looked at her, and abruptly turned his back.

"We're going to need to talk about this." He informed her, as he shot a raider on the other side of the rock.

She'd never felt so exposed (in more ways than one) and had gotten her pants back up from around her ankles as fast as she could. By then, Charon had downed the last of the raiders, and had turned back to her. He stared expectantly.

"Talk, Smoothskin."

Kate/Grayson had frowned. Considered explaining exactly what was going on. How she no longer really identified with Kate the soft vault-dweller, how she felt more comfortable in this male persona than she ever had in her life. How she sometimes still wished she could put on something pretty, but had decided her safety was more important.

"I'm a girl." She said with a shrug. "But it's safer to travel as a man."

Charon stared at her, his face as impassive as ever. She knew though, that he was expecting more from her. But there really wasn't more. She certainly wouldn't apologize. He didn't need to know a damn thing about why. So she stared back.

Their eyes were locked for a long moment, neither of them moving. And then, suddenly, Charon's lips quirked up into a ragged smirk.

"Alright, Smoothskin." He shrugged, the motion a loose and comfortable roll of his shoulders. "Lead the way."

She fell into step beside Charon, and they headed out to explore the wastes and find her father. Together.


End file.
